Requiem for a Dream
by musicality7437
Summary: Post-Deathly Hallows, a very different Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts to complete her last year of magical study, haunted by wisps of memories and ghosts long dead. A certain dark and malicious Potions Master happens to notice. Throw in a little meddling from everybody's favorite white-bearded wizard, and you've got a recipe for firecrackers. And, perhaps, something more.
1. Chapter 1

_**Part I - Inception**_

"Strangers, waiting

Up and down the boulevard

There's shadows

Searching in the night…"

~ "Don't Stop Believin'," Journey

* * *

Hermione awoke from her dream, gasping. It had been the nightmare again - the very same nightmare that had plagued her since they'd gone hunting for those damned Horcruxes. Since they'd been captured by the Snatchers. Taken to Malfoy Manor. And then -

She shuddered and traced her finger down her wrist. The ridged scar tissue remained, stubborn as ever, pressed up against the thin cotton of her pajama sleeve. It was the first time that magical medicine had failed her, though she supposed it was only to be expected. She wasn't unable to appreciate the irony. It was beautiful - poetic. Bellatrix was such an _artist_.

Sighing, Hermione tossed aside the red-and-gold covers of her four-poster and padded softly to the bathroom to get some water. Not for the first time, she felt a surge of gratefulness that she was a prefect, and didn't have to share a dorm with Parvati and Lavender. They'd have wanted to interpret her dreams, eyes as wide as saucers, heads bent over an ancient textbook, whispering excitedly in hushed tones.

Hermione snorted. Divination. What a crackpot subject.

Then she remembered that Parvati was gone, working a Ministry job, and Lavender was dead.

She retrieved a glass of water from the bathroom and perched carefully on the edge of her bed, sipping slowly. It cooled her fevered mind, running down her throat in icy rivulets. What was she going to do about the nightmares? Hermione flicked idly through the vast repository of knowledge inside her brain, searching for anything about insomnia.

As for potions, she'd tried the Draught of Peace and Dreamless Sleep. The Draught of Peace was no use - its aftereffects remained long after the sun had risen, making her feel sluggish and listless. It was no good if she expected to pass seventh year in the proper amount of time. And as for Dreamless Sleep… Well. "Dreamless" seemed to be a relative term.

She'd stopped short of the Draught of the Living Dead. There was no point in taking the substantial risk of brewing it wrong and accidentally achieving eternal sleep instead of one night of peace.

She'd tried cursing herself, hexing herself, jinxing herself - she'd even succumbed to her Muggle-born side and experimented with doses of opium.

It was only when it occurred to her that she was knowingly ingesting a habit-forming drug on a regular basis that she ended her quest for the cure and resigned herself to a life of sleep deprivation.

Rubbing her tired, itchy eyes, Hermione resolved that a long walk was the only possible option available to her at this hour. She pulled on her dressing gown and crept down the stairs to the common room, careful to skip the vanishing step outside the sixth year girls' dorm.

The Fat Lady gave her a suspicious glare as she crept out through the portrait hole. "And just where might you be going, young lady?"

"Out," Hermione snapped, in no temper for the painting's games or judgment.

"Well, well, aren't we in a lovely mood this fine evening?" The Fat Lady plopped down on to her lounge in a huff and began to sullenly pick at the grapes sitting in the bowl next to her.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She knew better than to rise to the bait, choosing instead to slip off down the hallway, concealed in the shadows. Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, so she let them direct the rest of her body as she ruminated darkly on the thoughts swirling around her head in an endless maelstrom of chaos.

Hogwarts wasn't the same anymore - not without Ron and Harry. They'd jumped at the chance to begin Auror training at the Ministry, delighted that they wouldn't be required to take their N.E.W.T.s. After all, when you managed to defeat Lord Voldemort at the age of eighteen, what more did you have to prove?

But while Ron and Harry swept off grandly to reshape the Wizarding world, newly risen from the ashes of its Dark past, Hermione lingered. She didn't know what she wanted - she had no family, no parents (she couldn't even _think_ about them), no direction. Harry and Ron were entering their epilogues, and she was still trapped in her story. Somehow, she didn't think there would be a happy ending to her book.

_Hogwarts is my home_, she'd thought one dreary day in a burst of ridiculously simple revelation. And so she'd returned, slipping into her familiar black robes, wand in hand, school bag slung over her shoulder. She had one more year to complete, and no one in their right mind would deny the brilliant Hermione Granger the opportunity to do what she loved best - study.

At first, it had been grand. Grueling classes, mountains of homework, unlimited library access - Hermione practically bubbled with happiness. This was stability, something she could count on, something that would never change. Normalcy. Back to the way it was.

She craved it.

But then the emptiness started - little flashes of loneliness here and there, when she realized she was sitting classes with the year below her. She knew few of her classmates, and had even fewer friends.

Then the bleakness started - gnawing at the edges of her mind, reminding her that she was alone, left behind. Forgotten. The member of the Golden Trio who'd made it the Golden Duo.

Alarmed at the paths down which her idle mind was wandering, she went to Professor Flitwick and asked him if she could do an independent study, extra work on the side, anything - anything at all. He gave her a quizzical look and told her she could research Cheering Charms and how to improve them, if she really wanted to.

She attacked it with a vigor she didn't know she possessed. Extra work, that was it. Keep her mind busy, occupied, and there was no room for other thoughts to creep in. No darkness. No misery. No despair.

She finished the Cheering Charms project and moved on to "Summoning Charms and their Applications on Liquid Substrates," taking on an extra Transfiguration assignment in parallel - "Kettle Mice and their Usefulness in Brewing Tea."

It was only when she went to Professor Snape and begged him to let her do a thesis on Essence of Dittany that she was forced to confront the fact that something was very, very wrong.

Hermione was torn somewhat unceremoniously from her musings as she collided with a solid wall of black robes upon taking a corner rather more quickly than necessary. She and the other participant in the unfortunate collision let out of a huff of surprise in unison, bouncing off each other and landing on the floor like characters in a slapstick comedy.

Hermione's head started to throb where she had scraped it against the cold stone floor of the castle; the pounding intensified when the illuminated tip of a wand was pointed threateningly at her nose.

"Explain yourself, Miss Granger," came an icy snarl from the shadows.

Hermione groaned. Of all the people to run into in the dead of night, of course it had to be Snape. Squinting against the glare of his obnoxious wand light, she hauled herself to her feet and straightened her robes.

"I was just walking," she said with all the dignity she could muster, well aware that her hair had puffed out in its best imitation of a rat's nest.

Snape's face twisted into a nasty smile. "But of course," he said softly. "Just… walking." He trailed off, letting the silence settle uncomfortably between them, black eyes boring into her own brown orbs.

Hermione straightened up, squaring her shoulders and willing a casual confidence to come through in her demeanor. "Yes. Just walking."

"You are aware, Miss Granger, that it is just past three o'clock in the morning?"

"… Well, I am now."

"Do not be smart with me, Miss Granger," he snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "And you are also aware, no doubt, that the curfew for seventh years is midnight?"

"Yes," she mumbled, taking a sudden interest in her shoes. She could feel her cheeks burning and hoped fervently that he couldn't see too clearly in the shadows. It wouldn't do to show weakness, especially not in front of Snape.

"Well, then." Snape seemed sickeningly pleased with himself. "This is outright flouting of the rules - you leave me no choice. Fifty points from Gryffindor."

Hermione's head snapped up in rage. "Fifty points?" Her mouth worked furiously as any number of highly logical arguments flitted through her head.

"Silence," growled Snape in a tone that made most first years pray for a quick and painless death. "Unless you'd like to make it one hundred points?"

Hermione's lips clamped together so fiercely he could have sworn she had accidentally bitten her tongue.

"Excellent decision. And now, if you don't mind, I will escort you to your dormitory, so as to avoid further… outings." Snape pointed with his wand, indicating that she should lead the way. Sullenly, she trudged back to Gryffindor Tower, all the while accompanied by the prickling sensation of someone following close behind.

"Banana fritters," she muttered to the Fat Lady, who opened the portrait hole with a disapproving sniff. "Goodnight, Professor," she spat over her shoulder with as much malice as she dared.

"Goodnight, Miss Granger," came the equally frigid reply, and the portrait swung shut.

* * *

Professor Severus Snape paced his office furiously, black robes billowing around him at every turn. This was the third time he'd found the Granger girl out of bed, wandering the hallways, completely oblivious to the world. Truthfully, though he'd never admit it to anyone, he was a bit concerned.

Though Snape was loathe to dole out praise to his students, he grudgingly respected the Gryffindor know-it-all's brilliance and would have let the night wandering slide, had it been a one-time offense. But then he'd found her a second time, and though his first instinct was to stride terrifyingly out of the shadows and start docking House points left and right, something had held him back.

Perhaps it had been her expression. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before - as if she wore a mask during the day and removed it at night, when she was concealed by the darkness. Her face was twisted into an ugly grimace of what could only be pain, her cheeks sunken and hollow, eyes haggard and haunted. There was an aimlessness to her step, as if she didn't care where she was going, and her hunched shoulders spoke of exhaustion and defeat. Her brows were knitted together furiously, as if she was deep in the throes of dark thoughts.

Snape had found himself unable to move; he merely watched as she shuffled by the suit of armor where he was hidden and disappeared through a tapestry that supposedly depicted Beedle the Bard. What was the Gryffindor Golden Girl, the spotless rule-follower, the perfectionist devotee doing out and about in the middle of the night, drifting like a haunted waif? Surely she had nothing to be haunted _by_ - after all, she was just a child.

Snape ruled that out with a shake of his head. No longer a child, he reminded himself. Though he'd only caught glimpses of the Trio's hunt for the Horcruxes and the Battle of Hogwarts, he'd seen enough to know that no one could come through such an ordeal and still hope to cling to some semblance of childish innocence afterwards.

No, there was something very, very wrong with the Granger girl.

"Severus," said a voice, and Snape was jolted out of his reverie. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore on his office wall was smiling down on him with twinkling blue eyes. "My apologies. You seemed rather deep in thought and looked as if you needed some sort of interruption. I would offer you a Licorice Slug, but…" The portrait trailed off, gesturing hopelessly with its arms. "Alas."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. The former Headmaster was giving him the sort of look that said he was about to start meddling. "What is it, Albus?"

Dumbledore gave him a stern look. "Manners, Severus. Molly Weasley tells me that it's Ginny's birthday, and I'm missing a rather vivacious celebration in favor of stopping by for a quick visit."

Snape made a visible effort to restrain his temper. "Shall I invite you in for tea, then?" he responded scathingly. "Ah, yes - alas."

Dumbledore's anger seemed to pulse around the painting in a palpable aura. "Severus!" he thundered. "Enough. You will kindly refrain from any further sarcasm and listen to me."

Snape knew that tone. He sank into his office chair and gestured wearily for Dumbledore to proceed.

"No doubt you have noticed that Miss Hermione Granger is experiencing some… difficulties," Dumbledore began. Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Obviously_. "She suffers from trauma, Severus. It is likely something happened on the hunt for the Horcruxes that has profoundly affected her. Something more than what happened to Mr. Weasley, or even Harry."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Something worse than death itself?"

Dumbledore gazed down at him knowingly. "You should know more than anyone, Severus, that there are indeed things worse than death itself." Snape paled and gripped the arms of the chair tighter. It seemed that every conversation with Dumbledore resurrected the same old memories that he preferred to keep buried.

"And that is why I am giving this job to you, Severus, and not to anyone else. Go to her. Find out what happened, and why it has been troubling her so. Help her."

Snape looked up, startled, rage kindling in his eyes at being manipulated again by the older wizard. "Me?" He hissed, fury bubbling up within him. "Help _her_? Dumbledore, honestly, you can't expect _me_ to - "

"Of course I can, Severus. I can, and I will. Good luck." And with those parting words, Dumbledore vanished from the painting without even giving Snape the chance to get properly angry. _The bastard_.

Snape groaned and fell back into his chair. It was going to be one hell of a week.


	2. Interlude

**A/N: Usually I'm not a huge of fan of authors' notes, but I think this needs some explanation. When I originally wrote the first chapter of this piece, a friend of mine thought that Snape was too OOC at the end and wanted me to try to end the piece as a one-shot instead, as if Hermione had gone insane and hallucinated the encounter with Snape in the hallway. So, here's the alternate ending. It begins after the line break in chapter 1 that signals a shift from Hermione's POV to Snape's POV. Whether you like it or not, I promise there will be more to come after this. Never fear, reader. 'Tis not the end. **

* * *

_**Interlude (Alt Ending) - Sweet Dreams**_

"Sweet dreams are made of these,

Who am I to disagree?

Travel the world and the seven seas

Everybody's lookin' for something…"

~ "Sweet Dreams," The Eurythmics

* * *

Hermione crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, thinking. There was something buzzing around the back of her mind insistently, something that she seemed to have forgotten -

Ah, yes. Professor Snape was dead, too.

Hermione giggled at her own silliness. Of _course _he was dead. Hadn't she seen it happen, there in the boat shack? Hadn't she seen it happen to so many others?

_Dead, dead, dead. _The mantra beat out its choppy rhythm against her skull. Cedric. _Dead. _Sirius. _Dead_. Lupin. _Dead_. Tonks. _Dead_. Fred. _Dead_.

Snape. _Dead_.

Their faces flashed through her mind's eye as she rolled over, curling up and bunching the covers beneath her. Time for more sweet dreams.


	3. Chapter 2

_**Part II - Inquisition**_

"When you're at the end of the road,

And you've lost all sense of control,

And your thoughts have taken their toll,

And your mind breaks the spirit of your soul…

Nothing's ever built to last.

You're in ruins…"

~ "21 Guns," Green Day

* * *

The sun rose much too early on Monday morning, bringing with it Double Potions with the Slytherins. Hermione gulped down four cups of coffee at breakfast and ignored Ginny's arched eyebrow as she made her sleepy way down to the dungeons. Half an hour later, she was nodding off over a cauldron full of almost-perfect yellow Swelling Solution when Snape swept over in his customary cloud of black robes.

"Miss Granger," he said in the silky tones that warned the rest of the class of impending doom.

"Mm… Yes?" Hermione's eyes snapped open in alarm, darting around frantically. Had she fallen asleep? What had she missed?

Snape seemed to take her panic as confirmation of something he already knew. "Not paying attention, are we?" he purred maliciously. "If you had been, you would have noticed that Mr. Longbottom here has just knocked a vial of Erumpent Fluid into your cauldron." He gestured to her potion, which was now bubbling furiously and turning a violent blue.

Hermione gave him a blank stare. Then she processed. "Erumpent Fluid?" she gasped, horror dawning in her wide eyes. "But doesn't that cause - "

Her potion exploded.

Within seconds, the classroom was spattered with thick, gooey globs of Swelling-Solution-Gone-Wrong. Snape, safe behind his Shield Charm, grinned nastily as the students who got the full force of the blast began to float gently off the floor, sprouting hideous boils at an alarming rate and turning a putrid green color.

"Massive explosions?" Hermione finished weakly as she bobbed against the ceiling of the dungeon.

"Sorry, Hermione," Neville said glumly as he floated next to her, trying to ignore the boil that was growing on the side of his nose. "It was an accident…"

"It's okay, Neville," she reassured him, even though she felt vaguely like throttling him to death. "It's not your fault."

A flick of Snape's wand and the floating students were corralled around his desk, where he distributed vials of the Cure for Boils and a Gravitas Solution. Hermione and her classmates slowly began to return to earth and relative normality. A quick "_Evanesco!_" later, and the dungeon classroom was back to its usual dank, forbidding self.

Eyeing the clock, Snape seemed to come to the conclusion that nobody was capable of brewing even a marginal Swelling Solution in under five minutes, least of all this particular batch of grossly incompetent students. "Class dismissed," he growled, and with a cheer, the sixth year Gryffindors retrieved their bags and beat a hasty retreat from Hogwarts' own replica of Hell. The Slytherins were next to go, slinking out and shooting each other smirking looks. Hermione did her best to keep her bushy head down and escape with the rest of them, but it was no good.

"Miss Granger! A word, if you would." Snape pointed to his office, one eyebrow arched in a look that reminded her disturbingly of McGonagall.

Hermione sighed and shuffled through the door. The office looked much like she remembered it from her second year, when she had sneaked in to steal some vital ingredients for their Polyjuice Potion -

Snape was giving her a strange, suspicious look, and she realized with a gulp that he really could read minds. She stopped that train of thought in its tracks.

The Potions Master swept around his desk to face her and closed the door with a wave of his wand. It swung shut with a rather ominous thud. Another flick of his wand, and a nearby coffee table had been transfigured into an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair.

"Sit," Snape said simply, so Hermione sat. She had the distinct impression that she was about to be pickled and put in a jar for use as next year's potions ingredients. The professor sank into the armchair behind his desk and regarded her silently for a moment, eyes dark and inscrutable. Then:

"You haven't slept, Miss Granger. For weeks."

It wasn't a question - it was a statement, absolute and irrefutable. Hermione's head jerked up suddenly, and she met his eyes. Obviously he had startled her. Snape tipped his head to the side. There were no bags under her eyes, no sign of the pure exhaustion he'd seen last night. Was she using a Glamour Charm? Difficult to tell. He steepled his fingers and allowed the silence to settle uncomfortably between them.

Finally, she seemed to realize that she was supposed to respond. "Um… no."

"No, what?"

"No, I haven't slept in weeks, _sir_." She added a nasty emphasis on the last word. Snape narrowed his eyes. He disapproved of her new attitude, not to mention the blatant disrespect she'd shown him on no less than two separate occasions in the last twenty-four hours.

"Would you care to elaborate, Miss Granger? Perhaps by explaining _why _you have been wandering the castle so frequently instead of getting the sleep you so clearly need?"

"Why, Professor," she said, face twisting into a wistful expression of bitter cynicism. "I didn't know you cared."

Snape's breath caught in his throat, and the inky blackness in his eyes fractured for a split second. He hadn't known that he cared, either. But then the Bat of the Dungeons persona was back in place, and he stood, towering over her. "I cannot have you blowing up my dungeon on a regular basis, Miss Granger," he snarled, leaning across the desk because he knew it would make her uncomfortable. Sure enough, she shrank back from him as far as the chair would allow. "Though you may view it as your personal playground for whatever childish prank pops into your head, it is nevertheless my classroom, and it must be treated as such." Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd been unfair. But then again, she was a Gryffindor, and he was the Head of Slytherin House, with a reputation to uphold.

Hermione's face was furrowing into a familiar expression of righteous anger. "My _personal playground_? Who do you think I am, the next incarnation of the Weasley twins?" He could see the words die in her throat as she realized that there weren't Weasley twins anymore - just the one. "Besides, I didn't drop the Erumpent Fluid into my cauldron. That was Neville's fault," she finished lamely.

"Many things that are Mr. Longbottom's fault can easily be prevented, Miss Granger," he sneered. And then, the words that he knew would cut her to the core: "I expected better of you."

Hermione's ears burned at the tips and she felt tears begin to prickle treacherously behind her eyes. This was her worst nightmare coming to life - a teacher telling her that she wasn't good enough. And it was Snape, no less.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to come clean. "I can't sleep, sir, because I have nightmares," she mumbled, directing her gaze carefully at the cold stone floor. She realized as she said it how childish it sounded - what seventeen-year-old still had nightmares? She was pathetic.

Had Hermione looked up, she would have seen that Snape was looking grimly as if he had suspected this all along. But she mistook his silence for shock and discomfort. After all, this was _Snape_ - emotions were probably a concept more foreign to him than the color pink. "I'm sorry, Professor, I'll just - I'll go," she stuttered, utterly mortified, leaping off the chair in a desperate bid to escape the uncomfortable situation. But she had barely taken two steps towards the door when Snape spoke, his deep baritone echoing menacingly through the stone chamber.

"Sit," he commanded with such deadly softness that she instantly whirled and planted herself in the chair again, utterly terrified.

"If I may inquire," he continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "Nightmares about what, precisely?"

Hermione's jaw dropped. "… Sir?"

"I asked you a question, Miss Granger. Kindly endeavor to answer it sometime in the foreseeable future."

"Umm…" she trailed off, still in shock, unsure where to begin. What the hell was going on? Did Snape fancy himself some sort of shrink? "Well, I suppose they're about… about things that happened while we were hunting the Horcruxes."

"Excellent. Wonderfully specific," came the snide response.

"Sorry, Professor," said Hermione, flustered, "It's just - why - Is there a point to this? Why do I have to tell you anything?" She narrowed her eyes accusingly and he fought back a smirk as he realized that she was unconsciously copying him. Black eyes glittering, he decided that a little more intimidation wouldn't hurt.

"Because if you don't tell me, Miss Granger," said Snape oh-so-softly in a tone that sent chills down her spine, "I cannot help you."

"Help… help me?" Hermione said slowly, eyebrows furrowing in genuine surprise. "But… why? Why on earth would _you_ want to do that?"

Ah. There it was. She'd asked the question whose answer had proved so elusive. Snape's eyes narrowed. What was he supposed to say? _You need to sleep? I've been manipulated by Dumbledore into doing this?_

_I'm… worried about you?_

The very thought made him sick to his stomach. He would have to try another tack. "Let me make this abundantly clear, Miss Granger," he drawled, rising from his chair and sweeping over to a glass cabinet full of miniscule bottles. "I do not _want _to help you. Given a choice, I would not _choose _to help you. But because certain… others… have taken an interest in your well-being," he spat contemptuously, selecting a bottle from the topmost shelf, "I am forced to help you. How very regrettable for the both of us." He could feel her eyes boring into him, no doubt with a curiosity far beyond what was good for her.

Snape returned to his seat, setting the vial on the desk before her with a delicate _clink_. "Take this half an hour before you intend to go to bed tonight. It is my own altered recipe for Dreamless Sleep. We shall have another chat tomorrow, and perhaps by that time you will have decided to avail yourself of my help."

Hermione nodded, an undecipherable look flitting across her face, and carefully stowed the little vial in her bag. Snape felt distinctly uncomfortable - usually he was the one giving undecipherable looks, not the other way around. Silently, she got up and made her way to the door. Then she stopped and turned, taking a breath as if steeling herself to do something. "Thank you, Professor," she said quietly.

Snape quirked an eyebrow, realizing he could now count on two hands the times when he had been thanked by a student. By anyone, for that matter. He nodded imperceptibly. "You are most welcome, Miss Granger."

Long after she left in a swish of black robes and bushy brown hair, the Potions Master sat in silence at his desk, deep in thought.

* * *

Hermione perched on the edge of her bed, twirling the tiny vial in her fingers. It was filled with a murky, dark blue substance that gave off a faint silvery vapor. She tried to imagine what Ron and Harry would say if they knew she'd been given a mystery potion to drink by Professor Snape.

_Merlin's beard, Hermione! You aren't actually going to drink that, are you? The greasy git's trying to poison you!_

_Ron's right, Hermione. We know that Snape's not evil, but we don't know that he's good, either. What would Moody say if he knew you were about to drink something given to you by a known enemy?_

Hermione grinned. What would Moody say, indeed. But was Snape really a "known enemy"? In his office today, he'd seemed… Well, if not nice, then at least vaguely decent. And he'd offered to help her (never mind that it was against his will), which was something she couldn't really refuse. Despite her insistence that she could function just perfectly without sleep, she knew she was lying to herself. How much longer could she really last? How long before she completely lost it?

Feeling remarkably cavalier, Hermione popped the cork off the top of the vial and took a preliminary whiff of the vapor. It smelled nice. Then again, that was nothing to go on - Essence of Belladonna smelled nice, too, in the few moments before it killed you.

Hermione took a deep breath. She really was at the end of her rope. Besides, if Snape succeeded in murdering her, someone was bound to find out, right?

_What the hell_, she thought, and she downed the contents of the vial to the very last drop.


End file.
